"No," she interposed, "you shall not see me again. Why should you? Ask your sister to tell you how ignorant I am. She knows. Why should you come here? There would always be as much to laugh at as there has been to-day. Go where you need not laugh. This is not the place for you. Good-by!" Then he knew he need say no more. She spoke with a child's passion and with a woman's proud obstinacy. Then she turned to Olivia. He was thrilled to the heart as he watched her while she did it. Her eyes were full of tears, but she had put both her hands behind her. "Good-by," she said. Olivia broke down altogether. "Is that the way you are going to say good-by?" she cried. "I did not think you were so hard. If I had meant any harm--but I didn't--and you look as if you never would forgive me." "I may some time," answered the girl. "I don't yet. I did not think I was so hard, either." Her hands fell at her sides and she stood trembling a second. All at once she had broken down, too. "I loved you," she said; "but you did not love me." And then she turned away and walked slowly into the house. It was almost half an hour before their host came to them with the news that their carriage was ready. He looked rather "off color" himself and wore a wearied air, but he was very uncommunicative. "Louisianny 'lowed she'd go to bed an' sleep off her headache, instead of goin' back to the Springs," he said. "I'll be thar in a day or two to 'tend to her bill an' the rest on it. I 'low the waters haint done her much good. She aint at herself rightly. I knowed she wasn't when she was so notionate this evenin'. She aint notionate when she's at herself." "We are much indebted to you for your kindness," said Ferrol, when he took the reins. "Oh, thet aint nothin'. You're welcome. You'd hev hed a better time if Louisianny had been at herself. Good-by to ye. Ye'll hev plenty of moonlight to see ye home." Their long ride was a silent one. When they reached the end of it and Olivia had been helped out of the carriage and stood in the moonlight upon the deserted gallery, where she had stood with Louisiana in the morning, she looked very suitably miserable. "Laurence," she said, "I don't exactly see why you should feel so very severe about it. I am sure I am as abject as any one could wish." He stood a moment in silence looking absently out on the moonlight-flooded lawn. Everything was still and wore an air of desolation. "We won't talk about it," he said, at last, "but you have done me an ill-turn, Olivia." CHAPTER IX. "DON'T YE, LOUISIANNY?" As he said it, Louisiana was at home in the house-room, sitting on a low chair at her father's knee and looking into the fire. She had not gone to bed. When he returned to the house her father had found her sitting here, and she had not left her place since. A wood fire had been lighted because the mountain air was cool after the rains, and she seemed to like to sit and watch it and think.